You never know what we'll churn up in cleaning a stall
She washed dishes so fast they’re still dirty.
Even then, she overlooked
the beauty of tarnished silver.
Adding cabbage to the garbage,
she insisted Kosher pickles are obscene
and cheap wine’s just funky venom.
When she visited my kitchen
she wanted to star in a detergent commercial.
All of it meaning we ate out often.
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Copyright 2015
We were gathering her possessions
for our return to school when I came across
Hollander’s recording of The Tempest.
“Where’d you get this?” I asked curiously,
looking up to see her disappointed face
and be told: “It was for your birthday.”
Years later, another lover
would filch the album
amid another tempest.
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Poem copyright 2015
I’ve been trying to avoid one nagging question: How does your faith make you a different person? How has it changed your life? Followed by: How do others perceive this?
The old Quaker testimonies presented faith as a matter of the way we live. Our “sufferings” for our beliefs. (It matters THAT much!) The days when Friends lived “under discipline” – language and clothing as outward expressions – remaining inescapable.
So what about today? How does being Quaker (or whatever your faith) make you not just different, but a better person than you would have otherwise been?
~*~
For more of my reflections, click here.
Thinking about weather means thinking about air and about what’s invisible. Air, of course, being our most pressing physical need. We inspire – breathe in – as well as expire, or at least exhale, for now. It’s a rhythm, as are the seasons. While we don’t see it, we feel its presence as wind and view its action on leaves and open water.
Of the ancient elements, air was invisible and heavenly, countered by visible earth, fire, and water. The weather, of course, invokes all three. Fire, not just as sun but as lightning as well. Water, coming down as rain, snow, sleet, hail, fog; mounting across the sky as clouds, swirling, dissolving. Earth, absorbing them all. Everything, full of mystery.
Our hearts instill not just rhythm but constant drumming, working to bring these elements together – air in the lungs, with the liquid stream of life drawing food from the stomach and intestines, in turn to create body heat and the electrical impulses of thought and muscular action.
In one of my seasons of soul-searching, I finally came to address the “earthy” dimensions of spirituality head on. While the Quaker queries and advices touch on some of these as matters, they do so as points of conduct, without necessarily delving into the lingering and underlying dynamics. There’s a longstanding tension in religious teachings between the goodness of the Creation and the evils of “the world” or our “natural inclinations.” As I would find, the biggest conflict occurs deep within our individual psyches, as we attempt to resolve the fact that we are essentially animals, and thus doomed to die, while also being spiritually aware, with a knowledge of good and evil. The is, of course, the curse of the Garden of Eden, that the price of knowledge also imposes a continuing pain. Otto Rank, one of Sigmund Freud’s two principal disciples, delves profoundly into this dichotomy and argues that the fear of death, and not sex, is the central issue in the human condition. He also contends that religion provides the only sane response to this condition.
At the interface of the animal and the spiritual we can expect the most profound perceptions to emerge, and the further the perception reaches into both the animal and spiritual experience of a person, the stronger its impact. In this sense, mysticism does not withdraw from life, but offers opportunities to more fully encounter it. Once again, we find ways the Spirit becomes embodied in our lives and our world. How it takes flesh. How the abstract reveals itself in concrete decisions and actions, as well as thoughts and emotions.
One of the central themes running through the Hebrew Bible, the New Testament, and early Quaker teaching is that God has an alternative way of living – one that is at odds with general society or many human impulses. Conflicts arise immediately, of course, because we are essentially social animals who require other people for our own survival. How much are we willing to suffer to preserve this alternative stream, and how much are we willing to bend? Part of the answer depends on our place within a People of God, as Jews, early Christians, and early Quakers have all seen themselves through periods of intense persecution. (In fairness, let me acknowledge that the vision of drawing away from the surrounding society is also found in a number of other religious traditions, although not necessarily with the ideal of becoming a People of God or of embracing the “earthy” aspects of the human condition.)
In our own time, we sometimes speak of “parallel universes” that resemble our own. At a stoplight I glance over at the car next to mine and see the woman driver is scratching spots on a large lottery ticket. I have no idea what makes this so important to her at this given moment, why she didn’t take a few minutes when she first bought it, or whether she’s running late for her next appointment. For that matter, the attraction of lotteries largely eludes me, while Quaker discipline and frugality give me reason to avoid them. It’s one of those flashes where I begin to wonder if I’m living in a parallel universe within the United States of America, if not this planet Earth. I view military events, crowds in shopping malls, celebrity news, NASCAR racing, stadium concerts, new automobile showrooms, funeral home calling hours, McMansions, strip mining, and a host of other activities with the same bewilderment. On the other hand, I’ve begun to appreciate baseball and football, at least as they apply to New England, and once owned a used BMW that initiated me into car culture, of sorts.
That’s not meant to cast myself as “holier than thou,” but simply different – somewhere between American consumer society, on one side, and the Amish and old-order Brethren, on the other. If I begin sounding too cocky on the “holier than thou” front, my wife and children are all too willing to point out my failings. Humility is part of the earthy half of this spiritual equation. We are, after all, only human. In our own ways, at that.
~*~
For more of my Seasons of the Spirit reflections, click here.
For someone who has engaged in a writing life his whole adulthood, I’ve had a rather checkered career as a reader. After a precocious outburst in the classics – Robinson Crusoe, Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn in second- or third- or fourth-grade (not as class assignments, of course – who knows what we were reading there), I found myself largely oblivious to fiction. My attention turned to history and biography (the Landmark series, especially) and then science and politics. Non-fiction, with a sense of content. Fiction came later, in high school, curiously through political fiction – Brave New World, Lord of the Flies, 1984, rather than any of the traditional British canon. Throw a little Shakespeare in, and I was off – into journalism. (Let me mention that Huck Finn was much harder reading in my junior year of high school than it had been when I was younger; as a novice reader, I wasn’t tripped up by the strange spellings of dialect.)
In college, for whatever reason, I developed a passion for Samuel Johnson. Not for his moralizing as much as the sarcasm, I’d say, as well as a fascination with the baroque richness of his style. Maybe it was just the force of personality projecting from the writing. And then came Virginia Woolf, Kurt Vonnegut, Richard Brautigan, Jack Kerouac … the widening stream.
Surprisingly, a major turning point occurred in the span when I had the fewest opportunities to read – my years living in the ashram, a monastic community in the Pocono mountains of Pennsylvania. Out of the practice of meditation and reflection, however, I began to approach literature in a new way. The quietude opened poetry to me, both as a reader and a writer. The experience also introduced me to mythology, with the Hindu stories being more fantastic and meaningful than anything I had encountered in the Greek and Roman stream. Later, I was able to leap from this into the stories of the Bible as well, returning me to my previously unknown roots.
Others have written of being a promiscuous reader. I wouldn’t say I’m addicted to reading that way – at least, not any more. One of the ashram exercises, in fact, was a “reading fast,” meaning written words, rather than food. It’s all a matter of focus. That is, when I’m eating, I want to choose to concentrate on my food rather than a text. When I’m traveling, I want to see where I’m going. (Airport terminals, on the other hand, or stretches before takeoff, are another matter — they are among those place of limbo.) Later, when the newspaper first comes off the press, I found I could no longer focus on the stories – not after a shift of heavy editing. If anything, my head was so full of disjointed stimulation I needed to slow down to savor what I’d already encountered. For that matter, I prefer walking to jogging, with its restoration of a natural pace. I rush too many places and deliver on too many deadlines as it is. When I enter someone’s home for the first time, I must take care to pay attention to them more than the spines on their bookshelves. Now what were you saying?
I read, then, with greater focus these days. More selectively. I can no longer have classical music playing in the background. (It used to provide a barrier for noise from my family or neighbors.) Now, I immerse myself in what is before me. The text, then, as in scripture.
~*~
Out of all of this, my own work emerges. As a writer, I strive to create a linear progression. That is, the parts must advance is some sort of logic. Curiously, in my own work, I am often inspired by a Hegelian model – thesis, antithesis, synthesis – as drawn from cinema theory. On a wider scale, my earlier interests surface in new ways, resulting in something more akin to a matrix or spiral or collage than a straight line. I have been called a Mixmaster, with good reason. On top of it all, in my many moves about the continent, I’ve found myself exploring the soul of each place – something wine aficionados consider, in a smaller range, when they discuss terroir.
Let’s be honest. We have days like this. Ones where we wish we didn’t have to deal with these a#!/?\*s. You know the ones I mean, even if you live halfway around the globe. They’re one and the same.
But we’re all in this together. No matter what they think.
Now, what can we do together … to solve the real problems we’re all facing?
Well, that’s how it too often feels. But could another take give us a healthier way of dealing?
Suupose, for example, what if we’re all nuts?
Not just the others, the ones all around us who leave us pondering the rampant lunacy. (Not just in politics or the workplace, either. The highways are full of them. As for the checkout line at the store?)
No, what if we who’ve thought ourselves responsible and sane, are really the looniest of all?
Might we enjoy life more if we joined the out-to-lunch club?
~*~
Close to home, I’m seeing how trying to cope with an elderly family member afflicted with advancing dementia can put the caregiver in a tailspin. Somehow there must be a better way to span their alternative outlook and our reality without losing our own balance or course of action. Is it possible to enter their world and still stay grounded?
Just why am I here, anyway? What am I supposed to be doing? Or, as my dad used to ask when looking at his nursing home, “Who’s paying for this hotel? Who’s paying for this dinner?”
From my perspective, he seemed to be trapped in a dream that would rarely allow him to waken. As much as I love good dreams, I anticipate and appreciate the clarity of a wakeful state.
But then I write and read fiction and poetry, and maybe they bridge these awarenesses in alternate worlds. And I meditate, which enters other realms as well, at least as far as most people are concerned.
~*~
So here I am, still trying to make sense of it all. Maybe it’s time to reread some of those old stories about celebrated lunatic Zen monks. Think we’d find a clue there? Loud laughter, after all! Unexpected twists in everyday perception!
Stuck with a similar diagnosis, I’d want to be the one filled with childish delight in the trip. Maybe the one lost in a world of prayer for the world and all within it. Maybe I shouldn’t even wait – start now to look at all my surroundings with such wonder.
I’m open to other perspectives and suggestions. Anyone else on board here?
Over the past few years, there’s been an unanticipated shift in the way I dress, one that’s not entirely related to retirement. One of the lessons I carry from the hippie experience is an awareness that clothing should be comfortable, rather than conforming to the marketplace – and, if possible, it should express some degree of style.
As someone who never fit into the half of the bell curve the clothing manufacturers targeted, I’d always had difficulty dressing to general expectations. Back-to-school shopping was always a terror, one abetted by our family’s financial tight outlook, and one result was my pants were always way too short on my tall, skinny frame. You can imagine my delight discovering during my college years that Levis were actually available in my size. It was heavenly, even if radical at the time. I remember breaking unvoiced rules in attending classical concerts in my denim, even while wearing a necktie. Fortunately, the shift prevailed and later, when I discovered Quaker meeting for worship, came an expectation of dressing humbly rather than for pretentious show. Viva denim!
Moving to New Hampshire, I was delighted to learn that the San Francisco-based Levi Strauss relied on denim produced in the water-powered Amoskeag mills in Manchester, where I lived. So the product linked the continent, New England to California Bay Area, with cotton from the Deep South, and back.
As prices rose, my brand-name loyalty evaporated, even at the outlet store in nearby Maine, but some alternative sources still satisfied. And then they all started tinkering with the fit and gone was that feeling of comfort. Well, all except my Amish jeans – no zipper or belt but a pair of braces (suspenders, if you will) – which seem indestructible. Mine are going on 20 years, I reckon, and just starting to show real wear. The braces, though, can be a pain, as can going to the john when I’m also wearing a sweater.
For everyday usage, I’ve now drifted into variations of khaki or olive cargo pants. I really like all the pockets, along with the fit.
This has been accompanied by a shift from the oxford shirts I always wore to the office. From my first copydesk job, I’d learned to wear my wallet in my shirt pocket rather than sitting on it and throwing my back out of alignment – and so my shirts always had to have that pocket, which never, ever had a plastic liner like nerdy engineers include. Well, with the new pants, I could place my wallet in the other front pocket comfortably and that, in turn, allowed me to move on into turtlenecks for daily wear.
Turtlenecks are simply more flexible – no need for undershirts, I don’t even have to take them off at bedtime, for that matter, and they’re warm, even in our cold house. Yes, they also go with the sweaters I used to wear with those shirts.
I am surprised by my reaction looking at men my age or older who are still going about in blue jeans. They’re appearing somehow, uh, inappropriate.
In a recent dream, a former colleague was chastising me for not having fun in my free time.
“But I write!”
“No,” he snapped, “that’s work!”
Well, I do swim laps, but I wouldn’t call that fun. It’s more of a release, I suppose, or healthy routine, back and forth, back and forth, looking at the lifeguard, other swimmers, the water, the clock.
The dream somehow overlooked choir, which is fun, no matter how demanding or even exhausting our rehearsals and performances can be. And then there’s folk dancing, especially as New England contras and Greek lines. And, yes, I do like to hike and hope to get back to camping. As for gardening? Well, my wife says I do seem to have fun with composting. Ahem. And then there are the martinis and wine. Add to the list hosting company for a party or dinner as well as visiting others. Travel with my wife or among Friends has its pleasures, too, and I somehow seem to focus on active fun rather than a passive variety like kicking back with a movie, listening intently to music, reading a book, or roaming through art galleries. Oh, yes, taking the train anywhere is fun, and the station’s only nine blocks from my house. Let’s add playing with a digital camera to the list, too. As for blogging? Curious what the dream overlooked!
Well, what I do remember is that at the end, my colleague wound up agreeing that writing could also be fun. Sometimes.
Somehow I’ve been recalling an invasion of my journals, way back when there were only a couple of notebooks, or maybe a few more, as my collection.
Decades later, I was told that nobody has any business opening anyone else’s journals – it’s an invasion of not just privacy but personal integrity. A form of abuse, actually.
The reaction at the time, though, continues to haunt me: “These look like they’re for publication. There’s nothing personal!”
Meaning, as I still hear it, no deep feelings or emotions.
This, mind you, was coming from a neighbor and dear friend, not a lover.
She had no business – absolutely none – for violating my psyche. Remember that, if you must when facing a similar temptation.
When I started journaling, about the time I graduated from college, I was attempting to construct a thread to help me identify the scope of “my problem” through a period of rejection and deep depression. What emerged was more a matter of observing the world around me and the many startling new experiences my encounters were presenting. To my surprise, I started recording far more of the highs than the psychological lows. Many of the entries have ultimately worked their way into my fiction and poetry, either as prompts or details. And many other pages remain embarrassing claptrap.
Apparently something similar happened when I was living in the ashram. In reviewing those journals much later, I was appalled to find someone had ripped out whole pages. I wish I could see what I’d written – it must have touched realities too close to raw truth.
Much later, when I was more candid in recording my feelings and emotions, a girlfriend did clandestinely dig into my more recent pages and then, when I came home from the office, turned those confessions to myself against me. This was in something that was a difficult relationship from the get-go, and where else could I pour my confusion and anger, much less look at issues I needed to work on? The underlying message was stifling. Bottle your emotions. Keep quiet. Anything you say or write may be held against you.
This countered an underlying problem I’ve had in that I’ve always had trouble fully acknowledging or owning my feelings and emotions. The reasons are many and deeply buried, but one result is that I live far more in my left brain than the right, at least as far as human relationships go. As for expressing them? A first draft might land far from the mark.
Well, for those who might wonder about those journals – now up to volume No. 188 – I can say you’d find most of them pretty boring. Much of the time my biggest challenge comes simply in trying to track the events of the previous week or so. Unlike my wife, who can remember in vivid detail events from decades ago, my days become blurs. She’s come to realize I’m defenseless in arguments, simply because I have no idea what I meant when I allegedly said or did such and so years ago. (Anyone else have that experience?)
Add to that my penchant for an idealistic outlook and, well, what results is often more an outline to be filled in later, should I get a chance.
As I said at the time …
Paradoxically, to meditate on death and dying is to consider life itself in its manifold opportunities. The blessings of teachers and mentors, guides and ancestors, family and friends all spring forth.
~*~
six blue ridges:
five valleys in between
a procession of black carriages
to white tombstones
in a coal-dust haze
scarlet, purple, and gold
fade into rusty wheat and gray
wind in birches:
water falling on rock
Poem copyright 2017 by Jnana Hodson
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Jnana's Red Barn 